Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Backward Mule

It had been the theory of the prosecution that Harold had killed Farnsworth on the occasion of the first visit, but that after he had returned home, Harold had realized he had left at the scene of the crime some evidence which would betray him and that he had returned to remove that evidence — a very nice, very logical contention, but there had not been the slightest shred of evidence to substantiate it.

Viewing the case from the viewpoint of a jury, irritated at Harold because of his attempt to conceal that second trip, angry at the man’s clumsy attempt at lying, it was only natural that a first-degree verdict would have been returned. Looking at it from the calm, dispassionate viewpoint of a reviewing tribunal, it would be seen at once that Harold’s conviction was on circumstantial evidence; that while he had apparently lied about making a second trip to Farnsworth’s house, yet it could be claimed by a shrewd lawyer that Harold, having returned to Farnsworth’s house on a second visit, a visit which related to some matter so private he did not wish to disclose it to anyone, had entered the house, found the man murdered, and acting upon a sudden surge of blind panic had decided to keep out of it. Having been trapped into a denial that he had made that second trip, he had sought to stick to his story.

Since it was elemental that circumstantial evidence alone should not be considered by a jury as sufficient to warrant a conviction unless there was no reasonable hypothesis other than that of guilt consistent with the evidence, there was every chance the Supreme Court would reverse the verdict.

This possibility made the evidence of that kettle of boiling water and the waterlogged wrist watch in the oven more important than ever. Had Farnsworth had some other visitor and decided to heat a kettle of water because of something this visitor had proposed? — such, for instance, as steaming open the flap of a sealed envelope? If so, who was that visitor? Had he left any clues? And had the wrist watch got waterlogged while the kettle was being filled in too big a hurry? It was an interesting field for speculation, one that the Supreme Court might well enter into and, having embarked upon such speculation, would possibly feel the case had not been really solved until the mystery of the steaming kettle and the waterlogged watch had been explained.

Therefore, Harold’s escape became a second major tactical blunder in a case which had been ineptly handled from the beginning.

Terry Clane folded the papers, replaced them on the table and devoted his thoughts to the case against Edward Harold, a case in which a mere surmise of the police, virtually without anything to back it up other than circumstantial evidence, had resulted in Harold’s conviction. The gun with which the murder had been committed had never been found. There was some weak and inconclusive evidence that it was Harold’s gun. It was conceded that he owned a .38 caliber revolver. The murder had been committed with a .38 caliber revolver. When called upon to produce his revolver, the one which he admittedly owned, Harold had been unable to find it. The gun had apparently vanished from a bureau drawer in which it had been kept. But, as Harold had tried to point out to the police, he simply kept the gun there wrapped in oiled rags. He had had no occasion to look for it or to use it for a year. During that time, he had experienced the usual turnover in help, during a time when labor, restless and prosperous, had made it almost a universal habit to take jobs, work on them for a few weeks and then drift to other jobs.

In one of the other rooms Clane could hear the steady insistent ringing of a telephone bell. Then he heard Yat T’oy’s muffled voice answering the instrument, and a few seconds later Yat T’oy, shuffling into the room, said, “Man who say name alle same Gloster must talk very important. I tell him maybe so you not home I go find out. You home? You not home?”

Clane gave the matter swift consideration. “I’m home,” he said.

“Very well,” Yat T’oy said. “You sit still. I bring telephone.”

Yat T’oy shuffled out. A few moments later he returned with a telephone instrument which he plugged into a socket near Clane’s chair.

Clane said, “Hello, Gloster. What is it you wanted?”

Gloster’s voice seemed tense with emotion. “Hello, Clane,” he said. “Got your number from Information and I want to see you. I have something to tell you. There are reasons why I can’t go to your apartment. Could you come to the warehouse of the Eastern Art Import and Trading Company?”

“Why there?”

“Because there’s something here I want to show you, something I want you to see, and then I want to make a statement to you. It’s important, damned important.”

“I’ll be there,” Clane said. “What’s the address?”

Gloster gave him the address, asked him to come at once.

“I’ll be there as soon as I can get there,” Clane said and hung up.

He found Yat T’oy’s eyes registering disapproval, but no remonstrance came from the lips of the old servant. He merely shuffled to the closet, brought out Clane’s coat, hat, scarf, and gloves.

It wasn’t until Clane was halfway to the street that he realized the thing he had thought was a cigarette case in the side pocket of his overcoat was in reality a small automatic which Yat T’oy had thoughtfully slipped into the pocket.

Terry Clane emerged from the door of his apartment, turned up the collar of his overcoat against the chill fog which was swirling in and started walking briskly down the pavement towards the hotel where he felt certain he would find a taxicab waiting.

A dark coupé across the street showed a little pinpoint of red light glowing brightly, then fading.

Momentarily Clane slackened his pace. That would be someone puffing on a cigarette, probably some dumb cop who had been given the job of watching his apartment and who failed to realize that eyes which had been trained in China to observe the most minute details would instantly pick up the glowing end of a cigarette.

Terry dismissed such espionage as being too clumsy to be worthy of his attention. He heard the car motor start into life. From the corner of his eye, he saw the car make a U turn in the middle of the block, still without the lights switched on.

Not until the car had completed the turn and was coming up behind him, did the dim parking lights come on. Then abruptly the car gathered speed and drew alongside.

For a brief moment Clane was startled as he realized that this was no shadowing job. The car was speeding to a point directly abreast, then it slammed to a stop. A door swung open and a rough voice commanded, “Get in.”

Clane glanced over his shoulder, saw somewhat to his surprise there was only one person in the car, a huddled, shapeless figure that sat behind the steering wheel. Nor was there any indication of a weapon. The cigarette had been tossed away and he could see only the vague outline of the shadowy figure.

Clane glanced up and down the street. At that hour of the night there was no one in sight.

“Come on,” the voice said gruffly, “Get in.”

Clane’s ears picked up something incongruous in the command, a vague, indefinite something which clamored at the threshold of his attention for recognition. There was something wrong with that voice, something... suddenly he had it. It was the voice of a woman.

Clane turned abruptly, walked to the curb.

“Oh, Owl,” the voice said with sobbing anxiety, “please. I didn’t want to shout who I was.”

“Cynthia!” he exclaimed under his breath and jumped to the running board, slid into the seat beside her, and pulled the door shut. “What in the world are you doing here? ”